


born to blossom (bloom to perish)

by MissDinahDarling



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication Failure, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Jealousy, M/M, Making Up, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Possessive Jaskier | Dandelion, Prostitution, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDinahDarling/pseuds/MissDinahDarling
Summary: Jaskier thinks he has a pretty simple relationship with sex.Until he begins sleeping with Geralt.Until he begins falling for Geralt.Until.Geralt says thewrong namein bed.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 2144
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	born to blossom (bloom to perish)

**Author's Note:**

> okay.
> 
> so i lied.
> 
> i'm writing more stuff for the witcher. i'm about as shocked as you are.

Jaskier thinks he has a pretty simple relationship with sex.

It’s a talent of his, seducing and courting pretty ladies and handsome men – luring them into his bed for a night of passion, desire and lust. It’s greatly enjoyable and a wonderful pastime; he’d indulge in it more often had he more time in his life. To him, sex is no different to singing and dancing; it’s an expression of emotion, of life, of true freedom.

It’s… also a means to an end.

Should Jaskier require a few extra coins, then he isn’t above selling his other, more _infamous_ , wares to get by. He’ll trade his body in exchange for a roof over his head, sweet wine in his stomach and a warm body to help him pass the time. He doesn’t mind what he has to do, honestly – it’s pretty much a win-win situation. He earns some money, his lovers earn his _obviously_ desirable company, so how could it possibly be a bad thing?

~~He wakes up and he’s alone again.~~

~~His heart feels hollow.~~

~~Empty.~~

~~Numb.~~

~~He’s starving and sweet wine won’t fill the hole, the gap, the chasm.~~

~~Why does he feel like a husk, a void?~~

~~Why?~~

~~Why?~~

~~Why won’t they stay?~~

Then.

During a serendipitous moment, whilst he’s selling talent, his more official talent, he meets a witcher. The Witcher. _His_ Witcher. The man is daring, brave and emotionally constipated, but he’s exciting and sweet – he brings a new lease of life to Jaskier’s entire existence, and he’s never been so grateful. He gets new adventures to thrive in, new songs to sing, new fame to take advantage of.

A new bed to sleep in – well, _lots_ of new beds, technically.

But.

Only _one_ new lover.

Jaskier doesn’t believe in a religion, hasn’t done since he was a child, but he finds himself thanking deity after deity, every time he awakens to find Geralt, gently slumbering besides him. It’s a novel concept, having someone who wants to _keep_ him, instead of him miserably yearning and pining for those who just.

Want the experience of having him in their bed, instead of wanting him in their hearts.

Oh, his soul has never felt so _light_ and his _coin purse_! It feels so heavy and…

~~Full.~~

~~His heart is so full, so fat, so swollen with…~~

~~With…~~

~~What _is_ this?~~

~~Could it be…?~~

~~Is this…?~~

~~Is _he_?~~

…and life truly has never tasted sweeter.

Until Geralt says the wrong name in bed.

* * *

It happens when he least expects it.

They’re in the throes of passion, with Jaskier perching upon Geralt’s cock like he was created for it – the witcher’s large hands are curled around his hips, leaving marks which Jaskier will privately touch for days afterwards. He gazes down at the man he’s become utterly besotted with, his eyes drifting across the strong, scarred chest, the broad shoulders, the sharp jawline and cheekbones. He finds himself sighing as he takes in the silvery mane, the dark amber eyes and wonders _why_?

Why would this magnificent being ever stake his claim with Jaskier?

Because whilst Jaskier is proud to own his witcher’s body, he yearns to capture his heart and soul too – he wants Geralt, he wants to belong to him and own him in equal measure.

He’s just not quite sure _how_ to broach that tricky topic.

Geralt is, notoriously, bad at communication. Is actually rather quite shy when it comes to _speaking_ about sentiment.

So, he clutches onto Geralt’s thickly muscled arms and rides the man into oblivion. He’s not as strong as the witcher, can’t quite leave bruised handprints into tanned skin, can’t really embed his touch into the man’s body, but he can leave his own marks – he can leave his own little letters of adoration across Geralt’s existence.

His fingers dig in deep, nails biting through tough skin like teeth. He wants everyone to know that this is _his_ witcher, _his_ Butcher – but the scratches aren’t enough, so he leans down and brushes his lips against the thick line of Geralt’s throat. His thighs burn and his hips ache – but that doesn’t stop him from rolling his body against the witcher’s, sliding off Geralt’s cock, only to bury it inside himself, invasively, deliciously deep. He whines as Geralt’s grip tightens, the witcher growling under his breath when Jaskier presses kisses into sweat-soaked skin.

He seeks out Geralt’s pulse, laves his tongue over the vein and moans at the _flavour_ – Geralt might not smell like a daisy, but he tastes _divine_. He sighs, shivers when his witcher’s hands run up his spine, leaving behind a tingling touch which _scorches_. Jaskier gyrates with frantic little movements, feeling his climax build, and sinks his teeth in _deep_.

Geralt’s moan rumbles from his chest, his hands clutching tight as his hips buck into Jaskier’s pleasantly aching body.

Jaskier pulls back, admires the purple mark he’s left behind and flicks his gaze up to Geralt’s handsome face – he’s delighted to see the flush, high on the witcher’s cheeks. His eyes have clenched shut, his jaw is tight and Jaskier is just thrilled to see the effect he has on the normally taciturn man.

He reaches up, cups Geralt’s face and strokes his thumbs over the sharp angles of that gorgeous jawline. He litters the man’s throat and collarbone with sweet kisses, teasing licks and naughty nips, pouring his feelings into every touch and sigh which tears free from his throat.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, the word curling around Jaskier’s ear like a secret, hidden and private, just for them. It’s only one little word, but his voice drips with need and desire, and Jaskier drinks it up like it’s the sweetest wine.

He nuzzles at the man’s cheek, presses a kiss into the sharp stubble, and feels his hips jerking, jolting, his pleasure is reaching the apex, he feels himself crest, and—

“Yen…”

—and suddenly, it’s like he’s been dropped in the iciest depths of the sea.

Jaskier pulls back, his heart plummeting to his stomach like a stone. He freezes, his hips still and he peers down at Geralt – a small curl of confusion gently furrows his brows, and he cocks his head. Geralt’s eyes are still closed, but his nose is twitching, and his lips are firmly upturned.

Hurt, _sickening_ hurt, pierces his heart and webs across his body, entrapping his being in a shroud of pain and misery.

He.

He can’t be.

Jaskier _must’ve_ misheard.

Geralt wouldn’t _really_ be.

He’s a man of _honour_ , he wouldn’t do _that_ to.

To Jaskier, right?

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t sleep with Jaskier, but… but imagine—

“Yennefer!”

Jaskier can barely register the pain which blossoms in his heart as Geralt suddenly jolts up, his eyes wide and clouded with urgent determination. Had it been a lesser man, Jaskier would have considered the emotion as _panic_ , but Geralt is not a lesser man.

Or at least, Jaskier hadn’t _thought_ Geralt a lesser man.

Abject humiliation burns away his arousal, leaving him feel lost and adrift.

He gets tossed aside, his body aching as Geralt roughly withdraws from him – Jaskier is startled, stunned as the witcher leaps from the bed, snatches up his clothes and grabs his _sword_. Judging by that last item, Jaskier assumes Geralt has sensed Yennefer in the area, which. Which is just lovely, _yay_.

The witch has returned, which.

 _Yay_.

Now… now they can reunite and play the doting parents to darling Ciri and. And that’s just fine. Because Ciri – lovely, sweet Princess Ciri – has been traveling with them for a while and. And she’s been through so much, so. So, he supposes she deserves to have a little family once again. After all, Geralt is just charming with his newfound paternal instincts and Yennefer – well, she’s always wanted to be a mother and Ciri _does_ adore her, so.

So yeah.

Ciri gets her family back.

Yennefer gets to be a mother.

Geralt gets his sexy, terrifying witch, and.

And Jaskier?

Jaskier gets to watch, cold and hollow as Geralt abandons him and the horrifically empty room. He remains sat on the bed, feeling—

~~Nothing.~~

~~Numb.~~

~~Like another whore, except he didn’t even get paid this time.~~

~~Does that… make it worse?~~

~~Could his heart break any further?~~

—angry. It builds, slow and flickering; the embers char his heart, the sparks ignite a rage which engulfs and overwhelms his entire being. It tangles and dances with the tempest of devastation which swarms his gut, creating a storm so violent, it makes him sick. Jaskier’s body heaves with panic, nausea, torment – his gaze rapidly scans the room for a sign as to why, why things went so wrong, so quickly and _tragically_.

But.

There is no sign.

It’s just.

 _Jaskier_.

Fulfilling his purpose, once again, until something better came along.

Because, once again, Jaskier has been left chasing after people who don’t want, need, _love_ him.

“Bollocks to this,” he spits under his breath, his hands curling into twitching fists on his thighs. His body still burns but his arousal has died a dreadful death, and. And he needs to leave, to get up and get away. Geralt has Yennefer, he has Ciri – he clearly doesn’t need Jaskier.

With stilted, jerky movements, Jaskier leaves the bed.

Gathers his belongings.

Feels his body move, despite his mind being adrift with hurt and anger and resignation.

He picks up his clothes, his lute, his _pride_.

Because he’s served his purpose.

Time to move on.

* * *

Geralt races down the stairs, clutching tight onto his sword.

Yennefer’s righteous anger and Ciri’s panicked fear is still thick and acrid in the air – the smell had burst into the room, abruptly snapping him from his love-making with Jaskier. The combined scents had shaken him to the core, filling him with such icy dread that he had instantly snapped into action. His stolen moment with Jaskier had been thoroughly ruined, he knows he will need to make it up the bard and he will, but.

But Ciri comes first.

She always has to come first.

He storms into the bar, wrinkling his nose as Yennefer’s and Ciri’s combined smells seep into his skin, burning his nerves up something rotten. Geralt holds his sword up high and—

And falters.

Because Yennefer and Ciri are fine.

The bar is quiet, with only a few patrons milling around; the bartender is cowering behind the counter, her hands covering her ears as she mutters a desperate prayer under her lips. Everyone is staring at the centre of the bar, however – where Yennefer and Ciri are stood, gazing at the entrance.

Ciri has her arms wrapped around the witch’s body, with Yennefer holding onto the young girl with a single, protective arm; the other, she has raised up towards the door – her violet eyes are sharp and threatening, but it seems the danger has passed.

“Geralt!” Ciri cries out, getting the attention of Yennefer who turns and subtly relaxes, her arm falling to her side, “look who’s here!”

She flies from Yennefer’s side and throws herself into his arms – Geralt automatically clasps her to his body, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. She’s shivering, but as he pulls back to inspect her, he’s relieved to see her unharmed.

“Who knew that all we’d need, Ciri dear,” Yennefer drawls, unimpressed as she approaches Geralt, “is a man, to solve all our problems.”

Geralt sighs and regards her steadily.

“Why is it,” he responds, burying a hand in Ciri’s thick locks, “that whenever I sense danger, it’s you who’s in the thick of it?”

Yennefer shrugs with a small, impish smile dancing on her lips.

“Sheer good luck? I’m being honest, this truly is a fortuitous meeting – I was passing by and caught the scent of a man who hasn’t washed in several weeks,” she replies, before she glances down at Ciri, her good nature souring slightly, “would you like to tell me why Ciri is wandering around a bar, alone? Where she’s vulnerable to the attentions of cretinous men?”

Geralt frowns, his eyes falling down to the young girl in his arms.

“You were supposed to be asleep?” he says, his tone carefully free from accusation, “what could you have needed down here that you couldn’t get from myself or Jaskier?”

Ciri purses her lip and steps away from him, looking far older than she should.

“I wanted some water,” she explains, before something stern enters her eyes, “and I would have asked you to retrieve some for me, but. You seemed _busy_ – so, I thought I would just get a cup by myself.”

“And instead of getting water, she got the disgusting remarks of some drunken louts,” Yennefer adds, before she inspects her nails with a self-satisfied smile, “luckily, I came by just in time to rescue her from losing control and blasting this place to splinters.”

Geralt closes his eyes and feels relief flood out of him.

He never would have forgiven himself had Ciri gotten hurt.

Especially when he had been so close.

“Yennefer scared them away,” Ciri says, staring up at the witch with awe shining brightly in her eyes – it flickers for a moment, as confusion slowly clouds her gaze. She turns back to Geralt and he inwardly feels terrifying apprehension curdle his stomach, “what were you doing with Jaskier? It didn’t sound very good.”

Geralt blinks.

Yennefer sniggers behind an elegant hand.

“Fighting,” he says, haltingly awkward, “we were… fighting.”

Ciri sighs and rolls her eyes, looking every inch the put-upon princess.

“I wish you’d stop bickering with him,” she laments, hugging herself lightly, “he really likes you and I know you like him too. You should treat him better.”

Geralt finds himself wilting under her scolding words – he tries hard to ignore Yennefer’s smug aura, yet his gaze flitters to her face and his nerves prickle upon seeing her wide grin.

Then Ciri’s words register in his mind.

“I don’t fight with him that much,” he protests, because he’s sure it’s true. Since their last spat, on the mountains with the dragons, Geralt has been more careful when choosing his words. Jaskier’s wounded expression had haunted his nights, and he never wanted to experience such a sight again. So, he’s more careful now, more aware of how his words can make the bard’s heart bleed far worse than any dagger.

It’s certainly done their relationship a world of good.

It’s also helped him see the bard in a number of different lights.

Jaskier might be annoying, might sink his claws into the cracks and force himself into places he really ought to leave alone… but like his namesake, he’s also brought a shining light to Geralt’s life. Humans are normally so abrasive and cruel, but Jaskier. Jaskier is relentlessly warm, sunny and joyful – it.

It makes him feel _worthy_ of receiving affection.

It makes him feel… like he _deserves_ to be treated well.

Which is why he takes the time to avoid unnecessarily distressing the bard – he doesn’t want to lose the progress he’s made with the man. He doesn’t want to lose the tenderness, the pleasure, the lovely sweetness. He doesn’t want to lose, well, he doesn’t want to lose the man at all.

“Then where is he now?” Ciri asks, pointed with an arched brow.

“He’s,” Geralt utters, before he remembers how he had left Jaskier in the room – he hadn’t even told the man where he was going, or why he was leaving. He had just… thrown him aside, like. Like he was _nothing_. Shit, not even the whores in the brothels receive such callous treatment from him, “ _fuck_.”

Ciri frowns, disappointment rolling off her body in sheer waves.

Yennefer hums and cocks her head.

“Broken his heart already have you?” she queries, musing and taunting, “must be a record.”

Geralt growls under his breath, curses his own foolishness and turns to face Ciri – he ducks down, so he meets her line of vision and places his hands upon her shoulders. The girl looks mightily unimpressed, and honestly, he can no longer tell where her grandmother’s influence ends, and Yennefer’s influence begins.

“Stay with Yen,” he tells her, nodding towards the witch, “I’ll go get him.”

“Whatever you’ve done,” Ciri says, like she’s the parent and he’s the child, “you better apologise and make it proper.”

* * *

Geralt takes her words to heart and hurries back upstairs.

Curses thickly when he sees a cold, empty room.

Feels panic flood his veins when he spies the lack of clothing, lute and bard.

He flexes his grip on his sword and.

And.

And _there_.

Faint and subtle, is a hint of Jaskier’s signature scent. Light and fruity, like cheap wine – it floats in through the window and. And it’s spiked, _tainted_ , with copper. Jaskier’s in pain and the smell is sharp, tangy and tastes bitter on Geralt’s tongue. Regardless, soothing relief settles in his stomach like a balm, because Geralt _knows_ where to find his wayward bard. He rolls his shoulders back, grips his sword tight and leaves the room.

He just hopes his bard hasn’t gotten in _too_ much trouble.

He just…

He just hopes his bard isn’t _too_ mad at him…

* * *

Geralt finds Jaskier in the stables, leaning against Roach’s door.

He’s alone, no one else is around, but something is still _wrong_. Jaskier has his hand pressed to his side and his body trembles with unchecked, _unleashed_ , anger and frustration.

Geralt’s nostrils flare at the scent of blood and he hurries over to the bard. Jaskier flinches at the sound of oncoming footsteps and snaps his head around, grim determination and fleeting panic lining his features. Then he sees Geralt and his face, if it was possibly, falls even lower. Irritation blurs at the edges of his pretty face and he resolutely turns away.

“I’m still mad at you,” he declares, sulking, pouting, _sad_.

Geralt wrinkles his nose at the tone and slowly pads towards the bard – his movements are cautious and not unlike the ones he would have taken had he been stalking a deer.

But he’s not stalking a deer.

He’s stalking something more skittish.

More flighty.

Just.

 _More_.

“You’re hurt,” Geralt states, peering at the blood-soaked doublet with worry tinging his voice.

“Oh yes, you must have inspired me,” Jaskier says, snippily sardonic – he still refuses to turn around, his shoulders are hunched and defensive, “I overheard some loutish thugs saying the most unchivalrous things about dear, sweet Ciri – it made me rather mad, so I attacked them with my lute.” He gestures to his instrument, carefully propped against Roach’s stable door, “I may have been exerting some of my irritation towards you in the process. I may also have overestimated my skills when up against three men and one of them got lucky.”

Geralt pauses in his tracks.

Feels gratitude and pride bubble within his gut.

Jaskier might be prone to running away from danger, but he can still be feisty, fierce and fearsome.

He can still be quite the force to be reckoned with.

“You were protecting Ciri?” Geralt asks, cocking his head.

“Yes, unlike some people,” Jaskier sniffs, shooting the witcher a pointed look over his shoulder, “ _she’s_ charming and sweet and actually takes the feelings of other people into consideration.”

Geralt furrows his brows.

Feels oddly hurt by Jaskier’s comment.

“I. Apologise, for leaving you behind,” he utters, because he’s on unstable ground. This isn’t some beast he has to slay; this isn’t some job he’s on – this is. Something far more terrifying. It’s unknown territory and he doesn’t know how to navigate his way to safety.

“And?” Jaskier prompts, finally turning around to give Geralt a pointed look.

Which leaves him honestly _lost_.

“And…” he echoes, trails off, because he doesn’t know what else he could have done to offend his little lark to this great degree. He wracks his memories, but honestly… he doesn’t know what he’s done to hurt Jaskier.

Luckily for him, the sweet bard sighs and takes pity on the confused witcher.

“And do you apologise for calling out another’s name in bed?” he elaborates, hugging himself as he juts his head towards the bar pointedly, “do you apologise for imagining that, that _witch_ , when you were with _me_? And then leaving me, when you realised she had managed to hunt us down? Do you apologise for making me feel like. Like. Like I was _just_.” His voice breaks as he runs out of words, truly speechless as his hurt overwhelms him and drowns him, stealing his speech, his energy, his pride.

Still.

Geralt is stunned to hear Jaskier’s wounded words.

His gaze drops to the floor as he remembers his moment of passion with Jaskier, just mere moments ago – he remembers being enthralled with the feeling of the bard’s body enveloping him, remembers falling into the sensations of Jaskier’s touch, his sounds, his tastes. Then.

Then, he remembers smelling thick anger, sour fear… and his body had acted on instinct.

~~Protect, protect, protect.~~

~~You need to protect and save and nurture.~~

~~She’s your Child.~~

~~Now _protect_ her.~~

Fuck.

He.

He thinks he understands Jaskier’s cagey behaviour now, he understands why the bard is suddenly covered in spikes, shielded and protected by the dangers of the world.

“I apologise, but I was not. I have never imagined myself with anyone but you,” he utters, honest and true, his tone urging for Jaskier to believe him, “I had scented Yennefer, that is true, but I had also scented Ciri’s fear. I.” He falters, feeling slightly mortified, “I may have panicked and acted without thoroughly considering my actions.”

“Oh,” Jaskier utters, because… well, Geralt leaving to protect Ciri is _different_ and Geralt’s heart swells upon seeing how Jaskier understands this, “well.”

“Do you forgive me?” the witcher asks, light and probing.

Because he _knows_ that Jaskier will – the bard _always_ forgives him, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

But it’s still nice to _hear_.

“I. I don’t know. Geralt, I know my morals are about a stable as a whore’s,” the bard says mournfully, his voice breaking like fragile glass hitting the ground, “but I like to think I still have a heart.”

Geralt tilts his head, furrows his brow and reaches up to softly cup the bard’s sombre face.

“I know you do,” he says, because he’s.

He’s not really sure what Jaskier is trying to say.

“Do you?” Jaskier asks, softly wounded and uncertain, “because it hadn’t seemed apparent mere moments ago. I know it’s _easy_ , that I’m _easy_ , but. Regardless of what you _scented_ , you still left me behind. You still _abandoned_ me. You still tossed me aside – again, might I add? Honestly, you thoroughly ruined what could have been such a lovely evening.”

Geralt’s grip slackens as he takes in the scent of insecurity, of fear, or pain. He just. Isn’t quite sure if the thick odour is radiating from Jaskier.

Or him.

Regardless, he moves closer, traps Jaskier against the stable door and tries hard to ignore Roach’s judgmental gaze. The bard allows himself to be caged, to be trapped by the witcher’s strong arms; his eyes are still downcast, his lip still trembles unhappily.

“I know I’m not good with words,” Geralt murmurs lowly, gently tipping Jaskier’s face up, capturing those pretty blue eyes with his own, “but I am good with this.”

Jaskier utters a noise of confusion as he leans into Geralt’s touch.

“Good at what?” he asks softly, his words _loud_ in the empty, cold stable.

“This,” Geralt echoes, before he leans in and presses his lips to Jaskier’s. The bard stiffens, his body rigid and cold beneath the witcher’s hands – but then Geralt flicks out his tongue, pressed his chest against Jaskier’s and the bard… _just melts_ , sighing into the witcher’s mouth with great reluctance, but also with sheer relief. He’s still mad though, Geralt can feel it with every sharp nip he receives to his lips – Jaskier doesn’t really indulge in pain during sex, but he is obsessed with leaving marks behind. He greatly enjoys leaving little pieces of himself in Geralt’s skin and. Well. The Witcher would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy wearing the marks – they were signs of Jaskier’s feelings, of his passion and desire.

Their kiss turns heated, with Jaskier stumbling against the stable door – he’s flattened against it, stuck between the wood and Geralt’s hard, strong body. Their kiss steals every little gasping breath from Jaskier’s lips, every little moan is drawn out from his throat, every little twitch and jerk is coaxed from the bard’s body. Jaskier is a mere instrument and Geralt _strums_ him so well – he knows every little part of his little lark’s body, knows where to press and bite and grab. He knows what will have his bard shying away and what will have him trilling with joy and delight.

Grabbing Jaskier’s hips will have him thrusting eagerly in response.

Gripping his hair leaves the bard weak and breathy.

Holding his hands… threading their fingers together… makes the songbird weak in ways Geralt hadn’t thought imaginable. Because the bard will grab on tight, but his body will slacken and lean against the witcher, like he’s an anchor and Jaskier is terrified of floating away if he doesn’t have Geralt to hold onto.

Their tongues dance.

Their teeth playfully clash and nip.

Jaskier sucks on his lower lip, curls his hands through Geralt’s long hair and grinds his lithe hips against the witcher’s body. In response, Geralt growls, his hands wander across Jaskier’s writhing body, brushing across his stomach and—

“Geralt!”

—immediately pulls away when the bard whimpers and recoils, a grimace twisting his pretty features as he tries to dance out of Geralt’s grip. The witcher stiffens and glances down when his hand brushes against damp satin – he frowns when he spies the red stain and curses himself for forgetting Jaskier’s injury.

“I’m sorry,” he husks, before he slowly falls to his knees before the bard, “allow me?”

Jaskier blinks – casts an alarmed look across the stables and peers down in sheer disbelief.

“Are you…” he trails off, waving a hand between Geralt and his groin, “because I may have said that the mood was ruined, but if you’re trying to ignite things, then I suppose now would be a good time – although, I must say, Roach is uncomfortably close and I’m not sure she would entirely value the gorgeous view like I—”

“I’m talking about your wound,” Geralt clarifies, his patience coming close to snapping, “allow me to have a look at your wound.”

“Oh,” Jaskier utters, slightly disappointed, “it’s. Just a scratch.”

Geralt arches a brow and says nothing.

His lack of words speak louder than any comment he could have made.

Gingerly, he reaches for Jaskier’s doublet and unlaces it, pulling it away from the white chemise which lies underneath. He’s always… _enjoyed_ the sight of Jaskier in his chemise. The bard was born to dress in lace, silk and satin – his skin just suits the soft materials so well, and Geralt. Well, he’s always enjoyed gently disrobing the bard, watching as his clothes gracefully fall from his body.

He runs his fingers across the lace chemise and frowns at the large red stain – slowly, he tugs it free from Jaskier’s pants and lifts it up.

Hm.

Jaskier had actually been _right_ for once.

It really _is_ just a scratch – it’s long though, which probably explains the amount of blood. Still, Geralt softly brushes his finger across the wound and leans in, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s skin with an almost reverent touch.

He hears Jaskier sigh.

He feels Jaskier’s fingers run through his silver hair.

~~He melts.~~

~~He melts, he melts, he’s melting.~~

~~Jaskier has made him so weak and soft and.~~

“Geralt – I. The kiss was lovely, don’t misunderstand, but. I am still rather quite irritated with you. I just,” Jaskier begins, his face flushing as Geralt inspects the wound, “would have appreciated a little context. So, the next time you run off on some daring, dangerous mission, please don’t let it happen during one of our lovely, little trysts. I mean it, such behaviour does tend to spoil the mood.”

Geralt presses his lips to the scratch and breathes in Jaskier’s scent.

~~He’s alive.~~

~~He’s breathing, living, speaking, alive.~~

~~You haven’t lost him.~~

~~He’s still yours.~~

“Apologies,” he rumbles as he rises to his feet, “I will endeavour to give you more information in a timelier manner.”

Jaskier shoots him a little smile. “Much appreciated,” he murmurs, before he sways closer to Geralt, tucking himself into the tiny space between them – he invades the witcher’s space, his arms looping around Geralt’s body, “see, you can learn.”

Then he sweetly brushes their noses together, then their lips, then he steals one sweet peck before he pulls back. Forever the tease, forever dancing around Geralt, inviting the witcher to give chase, to hunt down and _catch_.

Geralt supposes Jaskier’s always wanted to be _caught_.

No one’s just wanted to catch him.

Which is their loss.

It also suits him just fine – he’s always been a good hunter.

“Jaskier,” he burrs, deep from his chest, “I need you to know, I. I know it’s a popular theory that. That witches don’t feel.” He grits the words out, forces them from his throat, because Jaskier needs to hear them – like always, the bard patiently waits and _listens_. “But we do. I do. I feel, a great many things – for you. Especially for you. Probably more so than ought to be considered healthy—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier chokes out, desperately breathy and sweetly touched. His blue eyes are wet with awe, his own hands clutching at Geralt’s face, fingers digging in deep like he longs to bury himself under the skin.

“— _Julian_ , you know what I’m trying to say, right?” Geralt asks, tilting his head.

Jaskier sniffs.

Nods.

Then breaks out the sunniest smile he has in his arsenal.

“Please forgive me. I never meant to imply that you could not empathise, but _oh_. You, my darling,” he purrs, nudging his forehead against Geralt’s, “have a _wicked_ way with words – you must teach me your secrets.”

“No secrets,” Geralt responds, his amber eyes soft as he scans Jaskier’s sweet face, “I simply learned from the best.”

Jaskier bites his lip and then throws himself at his witcher, burying his face deep into Geralt’s throat. They linger there, wrapped and tangled up in each other’s presence. It’s rare they get the chance to steal a moment like this – especially with Ciri travelling with them. The young girl does try to give them space, but neither of them are particularly fond of leaving her alone.

Tonight just _proves_ how _terrible_ an idea that is.

So, Geralt takes this moment and savours every second he has with the bard in his arms. Jaskier’s the first human to have ever truly… taken the time to understand him. To support him and love him. He’s never been bestowed a gift so precious before, Ciri withstanding, and he’s still not sure how long he’ll get to keep the bard by his side.

“I was going to leave.”

The words are like shards of glass, piercing him deep.

“I want you to stay. Please.”

Jaskier smiles against his skin, nods quick and short, with a contended purr which curls around Geralt’s body.

And then they linger there. 

And Geralt holds on tight, because the bard is flighty and has wings that shouldn’t ever be clipped. But for now, his bard has built a nest, has settled and seems to have found peace in Geralt’s arms. And the witcher… the witcher is endlessly thankful that it’s _Jaskier_ who owns his heart, his trust, his _everything_.

He doesn’t think.

Anyone else would be so careful.

~~Except he doesn’t just have Jaskier.~~

~~He also has Ciri.~~

~~He also has Yennefer.~~

~~Witchers aren’t supposed to have families.~~

~~And yet.~~

~~Here he is.~~

Geralt sighs, buries his face into Jaskier’s sweetly scented hair and absently hears Roach snort at them from her stall, equally embarrassed and pleased for them.

~~But of course.~~

~~He also has Roach.~~

~~How could he ever forget about her?~~

* * *

“Do you do this often?” Yennefer asks, arching a brow as she gestures to the scene before her.

They had returned to the bar only to find Ciri and Yennefer have claimed a table in the corner of the bar, with two jugs of water and four cups placed before them. Ciri had cheered upon seeing Jaskier again – which had warmed Geralt’s heart, seeing her visible fondness for the man – but her joy had quickly turned to horror when she spied the large stain on the bard’s doublet.

Despite quickly assuring her that he was _fine_ and that it was simply _surface damage_ , Geralt had once again been subjected to an admonishing tirade, courtesy of the princess.

It had been somewhat worth it, upon seeing the delight and growing camaraderie between his small… family? Is that what he could consider them? Were these people at the table truly his family?

~~Yes, yes, yes.~~

~~His family.~~

~~His loved ones.~~

~~He’ll protect and defend and kill and die for them.~~

~~His.~~

~~All his.~~

~~And.~~

~~He’s all theirs too.~~

“Ciri and I take turns,” Jaskier responds, looping his arms tighter around Geralt’s neck. He’s draped across the witcher, perched on the stoic man’s lap with a grin so broad, it almost splits his face in two. His smug aura radiates around their table and Geralt would have found it smothering, had he not felt so comforted by it.

Yennefer hums, the tone judgemental and tinged with concern – she flicks a glance at Ciri, who merely shrugs and nods her head.

“It’s true,” she confirms, “we take turns.” She then turns to Jaskier and reaches across the table; almost immediately, the bard stretches out a single arm and grasps her hand in a warm grip, “what did Geralt do to make you so mad?”

Geralt blinks.

He feels Jaskier freeze, hears the bard’s heart race in his chest, like a hummingbird.

“Um,” Jaskier utters, flounders, his gaze desperately flickering between Yennefer and Geralt. Yennefer seemingly takes pity on him and nudges Ciri gently.

“You see, my dear,” she says, her voice soft like she’s divulging a secret, “men are fragile creatures, soft and sensitive – you must handle them with care, lest you break their tender hearts.” Her tone is delicately mocking as she directs her violet gaze onto Jaskier. The bard hisses under his breath, but wisely keeps his thoughts to himself, out of reach of impressionable young princesses.

Speaking of which, Ciri hums lightly before she peers at Yennefer with a shrewd gleam in her eye.

“You remind me of my grandmother,” she says, a small smile on her lips, “she had some… _interesting_ theories on men too.”

Yennefer blinks, before her lips gently curve into a genuine smile.

“You flatter me,” she says, before she presses a kiss to Ciri’s forehead, “I shall forever mourn the lost opportunity of meeting your grandmother.”

Geralt shudders at the mere notion of Yennefer and Queen Calanthe being in the same room.

Jaskier mutters something unsavoury under his breath.

Yennefer shoots them both a look, a warning and a promise, all wrapped up in a single, narrowed glance. Then she furrows her brow, peers at Geralt and sits up, looking intrigued and rather amused.

“Careful Geralt,” she says, tracing the rim of her cup with a graceful finger, “should your heart beat any faster, I may start fearing for your health.”

Geralt growls and shifts, uncomfortable with the sudden attention he’s receiving from the table. He shies away when Jaskier’s clever, nimble fingers dart across his chest, burrowing under his shirt to flatten against his hot skin. Geralt hisses at the soft, cool touch of his bard and cocks his head when Jaskier makes a noise of disappointment.

“His heart seems perfectly normal to me,” the bard comments, because he knows a great deal _many_ things about witchers – but, he doesn’t know much about their biology. He certainly doesn’t know about the slowness of their heart beats.

Ciri giggles.

Yennefer ducks her head to hide her smirk.

Jaskier simply tilts his head and furrows his brow, unsure and confused as to why his words have garnered such a reaction. Geralt simply melts at the soft look in the bard’s blue eyes and finds himself becoming more and more hopelessly endeared, smitten and entranced by this strange human, perched on his lap.

Jaskier’s legs are kicking lightly under the table, his body tucked in tight against Geralt’s. One hand is loosely linked with Ciri’s, his thumb absently stroking across her knuckles; the other is lightly playing with loose strands of Geralt’s hair. He looks content and happy and Geralt commits the sight to memory.

Jaskier is delicately, mortally _human_ —

~~He’s mortal, he’s mortal, he’s mortal.~~

~~How much time do you have with him left?~~

~~Why would you even risk breaking your own heart like this?~~

—and he has so much love for such a cruel world. He turns to Geralt and bats his blue eyes, nibbles at his red, wet lips and Geralt feels his blood burn beneath his skin. He’s never wanted anything before, not like this.

Not like _him_.

~~You’re going to risk it.~~

~~Because you love him.~~

~~Because he’s worth it.~~

“So, when is it my turn?” Yennefer pipes up, dragging Geralt out of his reverie.

“ _Your_ turn?” Jaskier queries, tightening his grip around the witcher’s neck, “for what?”

Yennefer leans across the table, props her head up with one hand and uses the other to point at Jaskier, sitting on Geralt’s lap. The bard blinks, then rears up, outrage written plainly across his features – Ciri immediately begins to giggle, trying hard to hide her smile behind her cup of water.

“Over my dead body,” Jaskier snipes at her.

“That can be arranged,” Yennefer replies eagerly, her violet eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Oh, do behave,” Ciri scolds, despite the amusement which threads through her words, “you’re all terrible examples of adult behaviour – don’t smirk Geralt, you’re often the worst one!”

“Ciri, dear – have you not met Jaskier properly?”

“I hope the next djinn you come across melts all your hair off!”

“Is that what happened to yours?”

As the bickering begins and builds, as their secluded corner becomes the centre of attention once more, Geralt tucks his head into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and sighs heavily, his eyes drifting lazily across—

~~His family.~~

~~This is his family.~~

~~Fuck, he loves them.~~

—the table and feels more whole than he ever has before in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> so.
> 
> this was just a thing where i test out the characters' personalities and voices. idk.


End file.
